Evens
by nice-day
Summary: Evens. Fiftyfifty. Two to one. You can scheme and prepare all you want, but when it comes down to it, we're all at the mercy of chance.
1. Luck Be A Lady

Hi there. This one-shot will (hopefully) mark the beginning of a quadrilogy of stories, each based around one of the four human Beboppers. These will be written in chronological order and posted as individual chapters to this story.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop or any of the characters therein.  
  
*** Chance 1: Luck Be A Lady  
  
Faye closed her eyes, and inhaled slowly and deeply through her nose. The air was clean, crisp and warm, and carried on it the gently pleasing scent of freshly cut grass.  
  
To her ears came the intermittent hum of mingling conversations, the urgent chatter of birdsong, the sleepy whisper of rustling leaves, and the continuous muttering of running water.  
  
Even without opening her eyes, she could see her idyllic surroundings. But there was no need to deprive herself any longer.  
  
Faye opened her eyes, and was greeted by a stream of vivid imagery. Sprawling out from beneath her feet a carpet of short, lush grass, broken up into columns by uneven lines of severed stems, lay upon a gentle slope that travelled down twenty metres to a cobbled footpath below. All around, young men and women lounged upon the soft bed of greenery, talking or reading, or simply enjoying the beautiful day.  
  
The footpath was watched over by a rank of willow trees, standing at wide, regular intervals along its length. These stood watch over a steady flow of people that walked beneath their sheltering boughs. On the opposite side of the footpath stood an old iron railing; the last line standing between the promenade and the lethargically ambling river that ran by a meter or so below.  
  
Looking out across the river, Faye could see a short, muddy, uncultivated bank, which lay shaded beneath of host of trees of many types and sizes.  
  
All of this was sheltered beneath a vast blue sky, which was dashed with streaks of pure white, and lit by a vigorous midday sun.  
  
Truly, the grounds of this ancient university were beautiful, and mercifully unspoiled by the old and unobtrusive university buildings that lay almost haphazardly about the campus. Even now, despite her privileged background and almost eighteen months attendance, she felt fortunate to have found a place here.  
  
"Faye!" There came a shrill call. "Faye! Down here!"  
  
Faye tore her gaze from her magnificent surroundings, and scanned down the hill at her feet. Allowing her eyes to dart quickly from face to face, it wasn't long before they fell upon a familiar visage.  
  
"Hey, blind Pew!" The fresh-faced young lady shouted. "Over here!"  
  
This call was accompanied by a frantic, two-handed wave.  
  
Faye smiled. It was Louise, a fellow student of mathematics and close friend since her first day as a freshman. She was sat side-on on the ground halfway down the hill to Faye's right. Her body was propped up in a visibly uncomfortable position, her legs pointing towards the footpath below and her body twisted awkwardly to face Faye.  
  
Faye began her descent, carefully dodging legs and stepping over binders and bags as she went. Upon her arrival at Louise's side, her friend made the gesture of scooting over a few inches and patting the ground at her left. Faye duly capitulated, and carefully lowered herself to the ground.  
  
"So, how was your morning?" Louise asked, dusting the blades of grass from her blue summer dress.  
  
"Oh, y'know." Faye replied as she wearily dumped a pair of black binders on the ground at her side.  
  
"No I don't." Louise said. "That's why I'm asking."  
  
Faye made a face of amused annoyance at her friend's deliberately obtuse attitude.  
  
"You know what I mean." She said.  
  
"Oh, it can't be that bad."  
  
"Try two assignments due in by the end of the week."  
  
Louise hissed at the sound of this information.  
  
"Thomson didn't give you an extension, huh?"  
  
"Are you kidding?" Faye sighed. "I was lucky he didn't move the deadline forwards."  
  
"Yeah." Said Louise. "That guy's a jerk."  
  
Faye turned on her side to face Louise.  
  
"How would you know?" she asked. "You never show up for his classes."  
  
"His reputation precedes him." Louise replied.  
  
Faye smiled, and then turned over onto her back. Clasping her hands behind her head, she stared absently into the blue expanse above. Slowly she fished about her mind for a topic of conversation. After a time she asked of Louise,  
  
"You ready for the advanced stats test next week?"  
  
"Nope." Louise said. "I don't think anyone is."  
  
"Yeah, you've got that right." Faye agreed.  
  
"Yeah, right Faye." Louise drawled. "As if you're not going to ace it."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean you love this probability stuff. Remember the mid-term? You got the highest score in, like, the lat twenty-five years that course has been running."  
  
Faye granted herself a slight smile of conceit.  
  
"Yeah." She said, softly.  
  
It was true. She did have a gift for probabilities. Not to mention the thrill she got from trying to predict the unpredictable; answering the question before it was asked. Though she had yet to contribute significantly to her family's sizeable fortune, some small part of it could be attributed to the aid she had given her father with his racing form over the years.  
  
A few more minutes passed in silence, as both friends enjoyed the calm, late spring day. Finally, Louise spoke once more.  
  
"So, are you going on the summer tour?"  
  
Faye tipped her head towards her.  
  
"What?" she asked distantly.  
  
"You know." said Louise. "The summer tour? The one to Europe?"  
  
Faye's heart sank. She had hoped no one would ask.  
  
"No." she said after a time. "I don't think so."  
  
"What? Why not?"  
  
"I. . . I don't think my father would want me to." Faye said after some thought.  
  
"Don't be stupid." Louise scoffed. "You have Daddy wrapped round your little finger, and you know it."  
  
Faye propped herself up on her elbows and looked angrily across at her friend.  
  
"Hey. Now that's not fair." She complained.  
  
Louise did not argue. She simply raised her eyebrows and tilted her head in a sceptical manner.  
  
Faye stared into Louise's eyes, trying desperately to maintain her resolve. It was a losing battle however, and she soon found herself surrendering to reluctant smirk.  
  
"Alright, fine." She conceded. "I just haven't asked. Okay?"  
  
"Why not?" Louise cajoled.  
  
Faye was sure she was making it apparent that she didn't want to discuss it further, but that seemed to be little deterrent to Louise, who was either oblivious to or ignoring her overt defensiveness.  
  
"Come on, Faye." Louise went on. "This is the opportunity of a lifetime. This is the first year the university has been able to book an orbital transport for an excursion. We'll be going into space, for God's sake!"  
  
Faye looked down and away. There was a pause, as it seemed that Louise had finally taken something from Faye's apparent display of displeasure.  
  
"Faye?" Louise said softly. "Faye, you're not scared, are you?"  
  
"No." Faye lied defiantly. "I just prefer planes. That's all. Those orbital things look too cramped."  
  
"You *are* scared." Louise said, a little more loudly than Faye might have liked. "Faye, there's nothing to be afraid of. It's perfectly safe. Those things go up and down all the time without a problem."  
  
"I know. I know." Said Faye. "It's just that. . . the idea of being in space, surrounded by just. . . nothing. . . it freaks me out, y'know?"  
  
"Hey, there's nothing to worry about." Louise comforted her friend. "You know, they say it's the safest form of travel. And besides, I'll be there."  
  
Faye gave slight laugh.  
  
"I feel better already." She said.  
  
Louise placed a comforting hand on Faye's back.  
  
"So what do you say?"  
  
Faye adopted a pensive cast. It was true that an opportunity like this didn't come along often. Even her influential parents would have had difficulty reserving such an exclusive mode of transport. But her fear of the void was a potent one. The idea of there being no sound or atmosphere, neither an up nor a down, was a disconcerting one to say the least. For twenty years she had known the invisible embrace of Earth's gravity and the soft pressure of the ground at her feet. She simply didn't feel ready to let go.  
  
"I'll think about it." Faye said finally, though in reality, her mind was all but made up.  
  
"That's the spirit." Louise smiled ironically at her friend's noncommittal reply.  
  
Louise retracted her hand and leaned back against her elbows.  
  
Faye drew in her ankles and embraced her folded up legs. Resting her chin upon her knees, she stared out across the river, and began to try and think of a way out that wouldn't result in public humiliation by her well-meaning but over-enthusiastic companion.  
  
After a while, the warm breeze carried away Faye's paltry cares, and took her back to that perfect place she had been. Such things were unimportant. Why let them spoil such a beautiful day.  
  
Faye noticed something out the corner of her eye. Louise's eyes seemed to have been drawn to something at the foot of the hill. Before Faye herself could investigate, Louise began to mutter to herself.  
  
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. . ."  
  
"What?" Faye said. "What is it?"  
  
Just as she began to turn her head in the direction Louise was looking, her friend snapped at her under her breath.  
  
"Don't look!"  
  
Faye froze mid-turn, and glanced across at Louise in bemusement.  
  
"Why? What's going on?"  
  
"It's Lee." Louise answered. "He's coming this way."  
  
Faye caught her breath.  
  
Those two assignments due in at the end of the week were not the only thing she had been working on. Since the beginning of the year, Faye had been working towards beginning a relationship with fellow student Lee Packard. Of course, it wouldn't be seemly for her to open the courtship. And why should she, when it would be so much easier for him to do all the work. Over the course of the past few months, she had been carefully manipulating him via strategic glances, carefully timed eye contact, and well-placed flicks of her shoulder-length hair.  
  
Men were so pathetically easy to manipulate.  
  
Unfortunately, his impromptu appearance had caught Faye just a little off guard. Nonetheless, she would not let this faze her. Carefully she turned to face forward, and lowered her head back to its original position. Then, taking great care to be subtle, she glanced to her left.  
  
Indeed, there he was, strolling casually down the promenade with two friends walking at his right-hand side. Though he was the shortest of the three, he made up for that with pretty-boy good looks and a passable sense of style. Add to that a wicked sense of humour and the take-home-to-daddy factor, and he was ideal boyfriend material.  
  
She had known from the start she would have to be subtle. It was just like when she had helped her father choose the winners from the racing page. All that was required was good timing and patient preparation, and the horse would win the race for you.  
  
Suddenly, Lee glanced Faye's way. Faye quickly looked away.  
  
Again she had been taken by surprise. Looking out across the river, she continued to observe her quarry through her peripheral vision. He and his friends had since stopped walking, and now seemed to be discussing something; a conversation that Lee had initiated. A moment later, each of the three friends raised a hand in an amiable wave, and then two walked away leaving Lee in their wake.  
  
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. . ." Louise muttered to herself over and over as Lee began to ascend the hill towards where she and Faye were sitting.  
  
This was it. It seemed as though all of Faye's preparation was about to pay off. The job wasn't done yet though, and it would take just a little more pushing to close the bet. Unfortunately, subtlety would be difficult to achieve if Louise continued to panic as she was doing. Her display of nerves was proving quite unsettling, even a little contagious.  
  
"Shut up, Louise." Faye rasped out the corner of her mouth.  
  
But it was to no avail. Louise just continued to stare into her knees and beseech the heavens over and over again.  
  
"Uh, high Faye." came a male voice.  
  
With that, Louise fell silent.  
  
Faye glanced up at Lee who had nearly completed his approach. With an unnatural ease, she shed her nerves and smiled warmly.  
  
"Oh, hi Lee." She said, as if having only just noticed his presence.  
  
Lee walked up to Faye's side, then slid both hands beneath his sweater and slipped them into the pockets of his slacks.  
  
"Hi there, Louise." He said glancing across at Faye's silent associate.  
  
"Hi." Louise replied meekly, without making eye contact.  
  
Faye fought to contain a sigh. She really was hopeless.  
  
"So, uh. . . you all set for the test next week." Lee asked uncertainly.  
  
Faye looked up at him, squinting slightly in the sun.  
  
"Yeah, I guess." Faye replied. "Are you?"  
  
"As ready as I'll ever be." Lee joked nervously. "Never was too good at anything with advanced in the title. You're pretty good at it though."  
  
"I have my moments." said Faye.  
  
She then looked down at the ground and gently pushed her hair back behind her left ear. As a result, Lee swallowed so hard that Faye thought even the neighbouring couple must have heard.  
  
This was all *way* too easy.  
  
Lee was dumfounded for a moment. Faye allowed him to maintain this awkward silence while he thought of something to say, thus maintaining control of the situation without any outward effort.  
  
Finally, Lee spoke.  
  
"So, I um. . . so, uh. . . are you going on the tour this summer?"  
  
Faye's eyes widened slightly. Suddenly, the shoe was on the other foot.  
  
"Because, I was just wondering. . ." Lee went on gingerly. "I just thought that maybe we could sit next to one another. Y'know, on the transport?"  
  
Faye allowed silence to fall once more, only this time she wasn't in control.  
  
"I uh. . ." Faye mumbled.  
  
She struggled for something to say, all the time cursing her bad luck and Lee's rotten timing.  
  
Why did it have to be now?  
  
"She's not going." A voice came.  
  
Faye looked up. It seemed that Louise had come out of her trance, and was now making an ill-advised attempt to bail out her friend.  
  
"She isn't?" Lee said, bemused.  
  
"No." Louise replied. "She's too scare--ow!"  
  
Louise cut herself off with a yelp of pain as Faye administered an elbow to her left arm.  
  
Though Louise's input had been unwanted, it had bought Faye the moments she needed to galvanise herself and come up with a game plan.  
  
"What she means is," Faye said firmly. "I haven't decided yet."  
  
"You haven't." Lee said, still a little confused.  
  
"No." she replied. "You see, my family usually go on holiday together at that time of year. It's kind of a tradition. I haven't decided whether I should break from that yet."  
  
"Oh, I see."  
  
Faye found Lee's tone of disappointment most satisfying.  
  
"Well, if you do decide to go. . ."  
  
"I'll come find you." Faye finished his sentence.  
  
Lee paused for a moment, and then smiled inanely.  
  
"Alright then." He said, before slowly beginning to back away.  
  
"See you around." said Faye with a wide smile.  
  
Lee continued to grin inanely, and raised a hand into an awkward wave. As he did so, he stumbled over a pile of books that lay along side a nearby sunbather. Scarcely managing to keep his balance, a distinctly embarrassed looking Lee excused himself, and helped tidy up the toppled tomes before waving once more and hastily retreating down the hill.  
  
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. . ." Louise began anew.  
  
This time, however, her tone was one of elation rather than nerves.  
  
"What?" Faye asked, as if she didn't already know.  
  
"Oh my God, I don't believe it!" Louise squealed. "You did it! You actually did it!"  
  
Faye smiled to herself.  
  
"Yeah." She said, softly. "I did, didn't I?"  
  
After some flapping of arms, and yet more excited squealing, Louise finally managed to control herself.  
  
"So?" she said.  
  
"So what?" Faye replied.  
  
"So? Are you going or not?"  
  
Faye realised then that she would now have to decide, sooner rather than later, if she wanted her pet project to bear fruit.  
  
"I. . . I'm still not sure." She said hesitantly.  
  
"Seriously, Faye." said Louise. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It'll only last an hour, and then you'll be back on Terra firma. And, if you don't want to come back on the transport, you can just get a plane ticket while you're there."  
  
Faye mumbled a little under her breath as she skirted around giving a straight answer. She wanted to go, but the prospect of boarding that orbital transport remained a more daunting one than she could bring herself to face.  
  
"Okay." Louise said resolutely. "I have an idea."  
  
Turning to her right, she reached into a red pack that lay at her side. From it she extracted a small leather purse, which she then open and began to rummage through with her index finger. After a few seconds, she extracted a mid-sized silver coin.  
  
"Right." She said, closing the purse and replacing it in her pack. "I'm gonna flip this coin. If comes up heads then you stay at home and wallow in misery and regret."  
  
Faye gave a short laugh.  
  
"But if it comes up tails," Louise went on. "Then you have to go on the tour with Lee, and then tell me about absolutely everything that happens, right down to the last gory detail."  
  
Faye rested her chin on her knees, and peered pensively across the river.  
  
Deciding her fate by chance; it seemed apt enough.  
  
"Alright then." Faye agreed, raising her head and looking to Louise.  
  
Louise smiled broadly.  
  
"Alright, let's do this." She stated.  
  
With that, she placed the coin on top of her right fist, and prepared to flip it into the air.  
  
"Wait!" Faye barked at the last possible second. "Let me do it."  
  
"What, are you afraid it's a trick coin?" Louise jested.  
  
"No." Faye replied. "I just think I should be the one to decide my own fate."  
  
Louise looked down at the coin in her hand.  
  
"Sounds fair." She sighed. "*Melodramatic*, but fair."  
  
She then handed the coin to Faye.  
  
Taking it tentatively, Faye held it in front of her face. It seemed to be a fair coin; head of state on one side, beast-flanked crest on the other. Its surface was a little lacklustre, and its edges cleaved in places, but overall it appeared. . .  
  
"Faye!" snapped Louise. "Quit stalling!"  
  
Faye shot a displeased glare at Louise. She was right, though. Faye was stalling.  
  
Looking down at the coin once more, she manoeuvred it onto the top oh her right fist, and coil up her thumb beneath. Then, she flicked it in to the air.  
  
As she watched the humble little disk vault end over end through the air, she couldn't help but ponder what outcomes could ensue from this simplest of acts. After all, it was in her nature to weigh up the odds. This moment could change her life forever, or not at all. She might remember it as a pivotal moment of her existence, or it might just be lost to the mist of her memory. Of course, the real question here was not whether or not the coin would change her life, but rather, whether or not she would allow it to.  
  
There was a dull hiss. Faye looked down in surprise to find that in her moment of introspective she had neglected to catch the coin. The object now lay prostrate atop the cropped grass.  
  
Quickly, and without checking the result, Faye reached for the coin with the intention of making another attempt. However, her hand was stopped fast as Louise grasped her wrist.  
  
"Ah ah ah." Louise scolded. "You flipped it, so the result stands."  
  
Faye looked up at Louise. Then, grimacing slightly, she looked back to where the coin lay.  
  
Slowly, Louise released her grip, and Faye moved her hand away.  
  
Tails.  
  
"Yes!" Louise exclaimed. "I knew it!"  
  
Faye's heart was fluttering slightly. She had little idea what significance this result would hold, if any. But right now, for some reason, it seemed like the most important thing in the world.  
  
Overawed by this bizarre sensation, Faye turned to Louise, and said the first thing that came into her head.  
  
"Best two out of three?"  
  
"Oh, no you don't." Louise responded. "You said you'd go, so you're going. You are going to find Lee first thing after last period, and you're going to tell him to save a seat for you on the transport, missy."  
  
Faye looked down at the coin. Indeed, she had said she would respect the will of the coin, or fate, or whatever power had guided the path of that small metal disk. She had always trusted the odds before, allowing them to speak to her and give her what pieces of information she would need to anticipate events. But still, this was different. The probabilities had been strangely silent. Even now, she had no idea of what to expect, and that was unsettling to her. She needed the security of a prediction, even if it were incorrect. Anything was better than this pure and total uncertainty. She always had hated evens.  
  
But then again, there was something perversely exciting about being completely in the dark over one's fate. Who could say; perhaps this would mark the beginning of a whole new life, filled with new experiences and new people. Europe wasn't so far. And as Louise had said, orbital transports were considered to be the safest form of transport available. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.  
  
Bedsides, what was the worst that could happen?  
  
*** 


	2. For Love Or Money

*** Chance 2: For Love Or Money  
  
Jet raised the remote and pointed it at the screen. With a quick flick of his thumb he changed channels, dispatching with some satisfaction a programme he had not found to his taste. Unfortunately, no sooner had this substandard show fizzed from the screen it was replaced by another equally obnoxious broadcast. Taking aim once more, Jet put this show out of its misery, only for yet another to arise in its place.  
  
With increasing frequency, Jet shot down soap and talk show, quiz and cartoon, as he might the defenceless cutouts that scurried haplessly about the police shooting range where he had spent many a training day. Though, there was something a little more satisfying about taking aim at a living, breathing, annoying game show presenter than a lifeless target. At least the shooting range dummies didn't have mouths.  
  
Jet paused his surfing, and briefly glanced across the darkened living room to the door of the kitchen. A soft yellow light was emanating from the open doorway, along with the steadily intensifying sound of a kettle approaching boiling point.  
  
Keeping one eye on the kitchen - only other room in the humble domicile - Jet slowly raised his left foot and placed it gently on the surface of the coffee table. He was careful not make a sound, as Alisa hated it when he put his feet up on the furniture.  
  
Of course, Jet knew that he would inevitably be busted for his transgression. But that didn't bother him too much. The fact was he actually kind of enjoyed being scolded by his girlfriend. Not for anything serious, mind. Just for the little things, like feet-on-furniture and raised toilet seats. He liked the attention and, for whatever reason, he felt it was an affirmation of her love for him. After all, would she be so strict if she didn't care?  
  
The sound of boiling water reached a hissing crescendo, and was punctuated by a loud click as the kettle switched itself off automatically. Then came the sound of boiling water pattering into a mug. Jet pondered briefly on why it was that hot water sounded different from cold water. But, after a couple of half-formed theories he to let it go, deciding that he probably should have paid more attention in elementary physics.  
  
There was a second click, and the kitchen light died. The room sank yet further into darkness, lit only by the pale glow of the TV screen. A moment later, Alisa emerged into the room, bearing a tray upon which rested two mugs. The barely visible swirls of steam that rose from their apertures signified the significant temperature of the liquid within.  
  
Momentarily consumed with concern, Jet sat up in his chair.  
  
"Careful, Alisa," he said. "Those are hot."  
  
Alisa stopped where she was, and sighed.  
  
"I know, Jet," she replied. "I boiled the water myself."  
  
She then took a further step before stopping once again.  
  
"And get your dirty foot off my coffee table." She scolded.  
  
Jet gave a mischievous smirk, and removed his foot from the table. In the pale light, he could see that his girlfriend to also wore a subtle smile. She too was familiar with his mildly masochistic tendencies.  
  
Alisa rounded the bed that stood at the heart of the room, and slowly made her way to the table and placed the tray gently upon its surface. She then slid herself between the table and the couch, and took a seat beside Jet.  
  
"Thanks, hon'." Jet said softly.  
  
He then leaned forwards, and grasped the handle of the mug nearest him. Cradling it carefully with his left hand he paused, and allowed the warmth that radiated from the liquid within to be absorbed into his skin climb steadily up his arm. Then, raising the mug, he took a sip of the coffee. He held the coffee in his mouth for a moment, allowing it to impart its warmth to his body yet further, before finally swallowing it.  
  
Jet let out a contented sigh, and leaned back into the chair. A moment later, he felt a slight pressure on his left shoulder, as Alisa rested her weary head against him.  
  
It had been a long, but enjoyable day. For the first time in quite some months, Alisa had persuaded Jet to take one of the many holidays he was owed by the ISSP. And, though he felt a little guilty about abandoning his post, Jet was glad she had. The last few months had been quite taxing from a work perspective. Syndicate activity on Ganymede had peaked, and for the already overworked and undermanned Ganymede branch, that had meant dealing with everything from homicide to weapons smuggling, larceny to money laundering.  
  
And it wasn't as if Jet had been able to concentrate on a single category of offences. Budget cuts and a downturn in recruitment had meant he had been working on all manner of cases in all areas of the city. On a slow day, he could have expected to spend twelve hours cleansing the mean streets of Ganymede. And round the clock shifts were not unheard of.  
  
Though he had been resistant at first, it turned out that a day spent shopping around the streets for something other than crooks and mobsters had been just what Jet had needed. Plus, he felt it better that he was at Alisa's side as she travelled those dangerous streets, rather than allow her to brave them alone. He of all people was aware of the dangers that lurked in the dark corners of Jupiter's largest moon, especially for an unaccompanied woman.  
  
Of course, the shopping trip had yielded little. Other than a few essentials, all to which Jet and Alisa had been able to treat themselves were a movie, and dinner at a moderately priced restaurant. Once again, the hardship had come courtesy of ISSP budget cuts. Indeed, had Jet not loved his job so, he would have left it for greener pastures long ago. And fortunately for him, he had a girlfriend that was willing to tolerate modest surroundings in the interests of her companion's happiness.  
  
"We should do this more often." Alisa purred, nestling her head into her partner's upper arm.  
  
Jet gave an unsettled grunt. He was reluctant to agree outright. Though this rare day off had been enjoyable he still had his duty, and crime was not taken to synchronising its holidays with those of its foes.  
  
"Uh-hu." He mumbled.  
  
"You should take more of your holidays, Jet," Alisa advised. "You work too hard. It's not healthy."  
  
"Would be a hell of a lot less healthy if I *didn't* work hard." Jet muttered.  
  
Alisa glanced up at Jet just as he glanced down at her.  
  
"You know what I mean," she said. "I'm not asking you to put less effort into your work, I just want you to take the time that's owed you. You'll burn out otherwise."  
  
"I won't burn out," Jet rumbled, defiantly. "Can't afford to. A guy gets sloppy out there and. . ."  
  
"Jet!" Alisa snapped, quickly righting herself.  
  
Jet took note. Alisa seldom raised her voice. It was clear that she knew what was coming next, and was less than enthusiastic to hear it.  
  
"You know I don't like it when you talk like that."  
  
"I'm sorry," Jet relented. "It's just that I'm not the only one depending on my abilities out there."  
  
"I know," Alisa said, and rested her head against Jet once more. "To serve and protect."  
  
"That's right."  
  
Alisa sighed.  
  
"Just remember, the citizens of Ganymede aren't the only one's who need you in one piece."  
  
Jet did not respond to this. Though he did give just the tiniest of smiles. It was nice to know that he was needed, and even nicer to hear it.  
  
The two rested in silence, basking in the cool glow of the television screen. Neither paid the softly muttering box much heed. Instead, each took more enjoyment from the other's company, and from the memories of a singular day spent in the same.  
  
After a few minutes, and the passing of one anonymous broadcast into another, Alisa spoke.  
  
"So, what do you want to do tomorrow?"  
  
"Tomorrow?" Jet replied, the surprise quite evident in his voice.  
  
Alisa sat up once more.  
  
"Yes, tomorrow." She reiterated.  
  
It was only as she looked into Jet's cast of genuine bemusement that she realised he really didn't understand.  
  
"Oh, Jet," she said solemnly. "You're not going to go back tomorrow, are you?"  
  
"Well, I. . ."  
  
"But you've only taken one day off. It's not enough. You're owed two weeks for this year, and save today, you haven't taken a single hour of that."  
  
Jet sighed.  
  
"I know that. But I can't just. . ."  
  
Jet paused mid sentence, and looked suspiciously into his partner's eyes.  
  
"How do you know I'm owed two weeks?"  
  
Alisa broke eye contact, and hurriedly brushed a couple of strands of her dark hair behind her right ear.  
  
Jet knew that mannerism. It was the one she displayed when she had done something she knew he wouldn't like.  
  
"Alisa?" he said, sternly.  
  
"Jet," she said, tentatively re-establishing eye contact. "I spoke to the captain. Now I know I shouldn't but. . ."  
  
"Damn it, Alisa," Jet barked. "Why did you have to go behind my back like that? You know you only had to ask. . ."  
  
"Ask what, Jet," Alisa retorted. "Ask what? It took me a month just to persuade you to take this one day off. I was afraid to even suggest you take all the time that you're owed."  
  
"So you get me to take this one day just to soften me up?"  
  
"No. No, I just want you to rest a while. Jet, I'm worried about you. This job, these times, they're getting on top of you. Every day you walk out that door, and every evening you come back looking that little bit more tired, and that little bit older. You're pushing yourself too hard, Jet. You're aging too fast."  
  
Jet leaned forward, and rested his elbows against his lap. Staring down at his stocking feet, he let out a long, weary breath. She was right. He couldn't bring himself to say it, but she was right. This past year and been hard. Even more so than he had let on. Every day he had encountered some new threat, been exposed to some fresh horror, and bared witness to some new depth of depravity. And with each shred of lost faith in his fellow man, had gone a little bit of his self. Slowly, but noticeably, the streets had been bleeding the very life from him - the very slowest of deaths.  
  
But he couldn't tell Alisa. This burden was his to bear. Many times he had been told that a problem shared was a problem halved. But in his opinion, a problem shared would be a problem doubled. If only the small pieces of information Alisa had of his work life were enough to fill her with worry, then he dare not contemplate what a full account would do to her.  
  
"I am tired, Alisa," Jet began. "But you have to understand, I have a responsibility; to the public and to my colleagues. I made a promise when I started out that I'd be there for them when needed."  
  
Jet looked up at Alisa.  
  
"They need me, Alisa. Now, more than ever."  
  
"But I need you too."  
  
"I know. That's why I make that promise to you, every morning before I go to work, that I'll come back to you in one piece. And every evening, I keep that promise."  
  
Alisa looked away, and clasped her hands around her coffee mug.  
  
"I wish you wouldn't." She uttered quietly.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I wish you wouldn't make that promise. It's morbid."  
  
Jet didn't know how to take this. Every day since they had moved in together, he had promised her that he would return from work unharmed. It was a valued part of his routine and, he had thought, a part of Alisa's. Just as with any part of his routine, it would difficult to let go. But evidently, this practice only served to upset her. In hindsight, he could understand why that was. Considering all that Alisa was sacrificing just to stay with him, he resolved that it was only fair that he relent on this matter.  
  
"Okay," he said. "I won't do it again."  
  
"Thank you." Alisa said quietly, still staring down into her mug.  
  
Jet gave a tired sigh, and reached his left arm around Alisa's shoulder and drew her in. She did not resist, allowing her head to fall softly against Jet's shoulder.  
  
"I don't think we should talk about this anymore tonight." Jet said.  
  
Alisa did not reply. It seemed she too had no desire to draw out this conversation any further.  
  
And so, the evening drifted on. Neither one of the couple spoke a word, allowing the meandering chatter of the television set to dominate over the background sound.  
  
The gentle flicker of the screen, and the monotonous hum of the speakers were proving hypnotic. And, slowly but surely, Jet could feel them lulling him into a much-needed sleep.  
  
Suddenly Jet sat bolt upright, almost knocking Alisa from her purchase in so doing.  
  
The phone was ringing. Its shrill, intrusive call permeated the apartment, shattering the restful ambience and precluding any possibility of sleep for now.  
  
Jet muttered a profanity, and then grudgingly began to raise himself from his chair. However, before he could raise himself to his feet, Alisa placed a staying hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Where are you going, Jet." she asked wearily.  
  
"The phone." Jet replied; his eyes still fixed on the crying appliance that sat upon a small table next to the door across the room.  
  
Alisa sighed.  
  
"Let it ring, Jet," she said, sleepily.  
  
"No, Alisa. It could be something important."  
  
"It's probably just my mother. I can call her back tomorrow."  
  
Jet sighed, and waited a moment. He was tempted to just let the phone ring, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Not while there was even the slightest chance that it could be an important call-out from work.  
  
"I'm sorry, Alisa." Jet said, standing up. "I have to take it."  
  
Stepping carefully past Alisa, Jet made his way across the room, dodging the mismatched items of furniture as he went.  
  
"You were tempted, weren't you?" Alisa said.  
  
Jet stopped, and glanced over his shoulder. In the cold light that radiated from the TV set, he could see Alisa's face smiling softly at him.  
  
"For a moment, you were tempted not to answer it."  
  
She was right. He had been tempted, and indeed, he still was slightly.  
  
Jet looked back to the phone. It was still ringing. Doubtless whoever was calling knew he was there, and deemed their purpose important enough to let the phone ring out.  
  
"I have to," Jet stated, more to himself than Alisa. "What if it's Fad, or the Captain? Alisa, I have to take this call."  
  
"You're still not sure." Alisa said.  
  
Again, she was right. Jet didn't know how she did it. He could hide his anxieties and fears from the most insidious of villains, guarding them behind his chiselled granite features. And yet, this woman could read him with ease, as if everything he felt were typed in boldface across his forehead.  
  
Jet looked away. He didn't know why he was so torn. On any other day he would have answered the phone without hesitation, but today had been so restful. For the first time in months he had been carefree, and now he was finding it difficult to go back to the way things were.  
  
But he *had* to.  
  
Jet turned for the phone once more.  
  
"Jet." Alisa called.  
  
Jet turned. At that moment, Alisa tossed something to him. A tiny shard of flickering blue light arced across the room towards him. Instinctively, he reached out and plucked it from the air with his left hand.  
  
Opening his hand, he found a small, silver coin nestled in his palm. Jet looked up at Alisa in bemusement.  
  
"Flip it." Alisa said.  
  
This did nothing to alleviate Jet's confusion.  
  
"What?" he asked.  
  
"Flip it," Alisa repeat. "Heads you answer the phone, and tales, you let it ring."  
  
"I don't understand."  
  
"I know it sounds silly, but please, humour me. Jet, don't let your conscience decide. It's not fair on *you*. You have your own life to lead. Better you should let chance decide for you."  
  
Jet looked down at the coin. It *did* sound silly. Why should he let this little trinket decide his actions? He was a man of means. He had every right to full control of his fate. Or did Alisa have a point? Perhaps he had been letting his conscience take precedence over reason and desire. Following such fickle instinct was often little better than flipping a coin.  
  
"Jet, please," pleaded Alisa. "I promise I'll honour the outcome if you do."  
  
Jet glanced over his shoulder. The phone was still ringing. Whatever happened, he would have to take action soon before whoever was on the other end of the line gave in and hung up.  
  
Moving the coin onto the roof of his fist, he coiled up his thumb and then launched the coin skywards. The disk glinted weakly in the pale light, and almost became lost to Jet as it dropped from its zenith.  
  
Nonetheless, Jet was easily able to catch it in his right hand. He then slapped it down against the back of his left hand. He could feel the smooth, cool surface against his skin. He could even discern its circular shape from the sensation. For a moment, Jet thought he might even be able to determine the outcome from the relief on the coin's face.  
  
"What does it say?" asked Alisa, breaking Jet's concentration.  
  
Jet looked up at Alisa, then back down at his hand. Slowly, he raised his hand from the coin.  
  
Heads.  
  
Jet's heart sank slightly. The sensation came as quite a surprise.  
  
"Heads." he said, careful not to allow any emotion to seep into his voice.  
  
There was a moment of silence as Alisa stared down at the table in front of her. She then looked up at Jet with a look of sad resignation.  
  
"Okay," she relented. "If it's Mom, tell her I'll speak to her tomorrow."  
  
It was then that the ridiculous nature of the situation struck Jet. All this stress and worry over a simple phone call. The likelihood was it was just some telemarketer, or a wrong number. He would probably be right back on that couch next to Alisa in but the few moments required to receive a greeting and accept an apology.  
  
Jet turned, and without a second thought lifted the receiver from the hook.  
  
"Hello, Jet Black speaking."  
  
"Jet." A familiar voice greeted him.  
  
Jet caught his breath for a moment, before replying,  
  
"Fad. What is it?"  
  
"Sorry to bother you on your day off, Jet," Fad said, the tension in his voice almost tangible. "But this is pretty important."  
  
Jet furrowed his brow. It looked like his day off would have to go on hold.  
  
"Something big, huh?" he replied, sternly.  
  
"Huge," said Fad.  
  
His partner paused.  
  
"We found him, Jet."  
  
Jet drew breath to ask whom *he* was, but stopped as he realised exactly who Fad meant.  
  
Had it been possible, Jet would have furrowed his brow yet further.  
  
"Where is he?" he growled.  
  
"He's at the docks on the East side of town," Fad informed him. "We think he may be meeting his bosses to finalise a contract. Jet, you'd better get down here fast. This may be our only chance to. . . "  
  
"I'll be there." Jet interrupted.  
  
There was another pause, followed by what sounded almost like a relieved sigh from fad's end of the line.  
  
"Right," he said. "See you there."  
  
Jet did not respond. He simply lowered the receiver from his ear, looked down into it for a moment, and then replaced it on the hook.  
  
He looked up to Alisa. She was still sat looking down at the table, her ever-cooling cup of coffee clasped tightly between her hands. At that moment, Jet felt a pang of regret.  
  
"That was Fad." He said, though he could tell from Alisa's body language she already knew. It was almost as if she had always known.  
  
Indeed, this information was met with little change from his girlfriend. She didn't move, nor did she speak. She just continued to stair sadly into the wooden surface before her, her forlorn features accentuated in the sombre blue light.  
  
"I have to go out for a while." Jet said, taking his hat and jacket from the hat stand next to the door, and slipping his feet into the shoes at its base.  
  
Still, Alisa did not respond.  
  
Jet looked back to the hat stand. Aside from Alisa's own waste-length leather jacket, the only item remaining was his own laden gun holster. He didn't usually leave it there, choosing to put it somewhere out of sight. But today, for some reason, he had chosen to keep it close to hand.  
  
Perhaps he too had known.  
  
Jet dispelled the thought, and plucked the holster from its purchase. Once he had donned his regalia, Jet reached for the keys that lay beside the phone. He stayed his hand, however, and looked over to Alisa.  
  
"Alisa, I. . ."  
  
"Don't, Jet."  
  
Jet caught his breath. How could he have forgotten so quickly?  
  
"Just go," Alisa said softly. "And come back to me."  
  
Jet gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. He then took his keys from the table, and turned to open the door.  
  
The door gave a mournful creek as, without a backward look, he departed the apartment. It gave little protest as it was pulled closed.  
  
Emerging into the moist night air, Jet tried to put aside the emotions of that evening. He could not afford distractions whilst hunting such a dangerous quarry. Allowing, the cool sea breeze to carry these cares away, he comforted himself with the thought of returning home with the relief of an important case closed. Likely it wouldn't take long. He and Fad had done their homework, and knew exactly what they were up against.  
  
With such trusted partners at one another's sides, what could possibly go wrong? 


	3. Pennies From Heaven

*** Chance 3: Pennies From Heaven  
  
Sister Clara raised her quill from the parched leaf of her notebook. Scanning quickly across the neatly ordered ranks of text, she checked that she had made a proper record of everything that required it. Then, reaching across the stained, scarred surface of her desk, she dropped the quill into the ink-spattered well that rested at the far edge. Her chair creaked as she leaned back, the weariness of its lament matched only by that of Clara's shallow breath. There she remained, thinking of little in particular as she allowed the moist ink to soak into the paper before she finally closed the book for the night.  
  
The sun was setting on another long day. The room, small and Spartan, was now painted in a muted shade of orange, courtesy of what little of the sun's dying light could trickle through an unglazed window in its East wall. Though the glow that radiated from the chipped and uneven coat of white paint that adorned the room was warm, the space they enclosed was bitterly cold, and becoming colder by the moment.  
  
Sister Clara placed her hands on her knees and hunched herself slightly in an effort to retain what little heat she could from her own body. With a regret as elusive yet persistent as the draught that swirled through the old convent, she watched as each breath escaped her mouth and condensed in the cooling air. Each one came and went, dissipating and finally becoming lost, like the days that passed slowly - almost unnoticeably. And yet, as with those days, she was grateful for every one.  
  
Deciding finally that the ink was dry - or at least dry enough - Clara reached out and gently pushed closed her notebook. The book didn't quite actually close; the progress of its cover hindered by the warped pages. This old tome had seen many seasons, and bore the signs of weathering to prove it. As well as bearing years of finance and inventory notes, it had also seen many a freeze and thaw, downpour and drought. It was a small wonder it could still do its job as well as it did.  
  
Rather than force it shut, Clara allowed the cover to rest upon the bulging leaves. She then rose laboriously from her chair, and stretched her arms above her head. With a stifled yawn, she lowered her arms and began to straighten what few bits of tattered stationary lay scattered about her desktop. Once torn paper and chewed pencils had been organised sufficiently, she stepped out from in front of her chair and pushed it beneath the desk.  
  
Clara gave another yawn, and turned to the window behind her. Slowly she stepped up to the cleaved wooden sill and placed her hands against it. She flinched slightly as she was caught unawares by the sensation of biting cold, and then gently allowed her weight to rest upon the surface. There she stood, silently staring at the view beyond.  
  
By day, the vista was by all accounts uninspiring. Much of the landscape was dominated by a vast, open crater-cum-landfill - a great open sore in the earth, infected by the detritus of a spent civilisation. About the edges of this wound were scattered a handful of shanty towns, comprising mostly ruined buildings dating back to better years, and a few temporary edifices built from materials scavenged from the dump below. The latter were generally raised up on stilts, so as to deter raids from the unnaturally large vermin that prowled the artificial wastes. If ever there was an environment to test the limits of human survival, this was it.  
  
However, as the day drew to a close this harsh world took on a different quality. The pale light of the diminishing sun would acquire a hew of deepest red as it filtered through the tainted air, and streak the skies with layer upon layer of pinks and purples, which vanished into the encroaching night overhead. The calls of roosting seagulls would drift upon the breeze, singing a faint, discordant song of what they considered to be a paradise of plenty. At this time and this time only, these wretched, diseased surroundings became not just bearable, but beautiful.  
  
But these qualities, as with so many things in this world, were a deception. In truth, none of it was any less foul, and in many respects, it was that much more dangerous. Twilight marked the edge of a perilous territory. After dark was the time of the predator's - both man and beast. Once the gulls' song faded it was the predators' soul piercing strains that filled the air, or rather, those of their prey.  
  
Sister Clara moved away from the window; it was best she did not allow herself to be spotted by whatever monstrosities might be emerging from their dens. Slowly she moved across the room to the simple, collapsible bed that stood flush against the far wall. Turning, she lowered herself into a seated position upon its uneven surface, an action that was heralded by the discontented screech of rusting springs.  
  
Clara placed her hands against the coarse bed linen in an effort steady herself. She did not want to rouse the children who now slept in the dormitory above. They had been sent to bed sometime before sun down. There was no reason for them to be troubled by the same stimuli that haunted her nights.  
  
Carefully lowering her weight the rest of the way, Clara finally sat properly upon her bed. There she remained a while, trying hard not to think of anything in particular, and instead enjoy this moment, for this was the only one of the day that was hers and hers alone.  
  
Well, these moments were not exactly hers. This time of day was among the few opportunities she had to pray, to share her thoughts with the one to whom she had pledged her allegiance and her life. But if she was honest, she had not taken full advantage of all such opportunities in the last few years. Perhaps it was due to her busy schedule, or the lack of structure in her life that came from being the only one of her order for a thousand miles. Or, more worryingly, it could have stemmed from a waver in her faith. Lord knows, her years as sole proprietor of the orphanage had not been easy, and had given her little to be thankful for.  
  
Clara banished the thought.  
  
"Oh, Lord," she uttered quietly. "When did I become so cynical?"  
  
It had not been easy to maintain her faith, but she had. She needed it to continue each day, functioning in her given capacity. But it was not so much *for* the children that she had held her faith, but rather, *because* of them. The smiling faces that greeted her each morning were a constant source of awe for Clara. These children had seen so much suffering, of their own and others, and yet their spirits remained unbroken. Bereavement and abandonment, cruelty and exploitation; all of these things were common among the short life stories of her charges. But still they could smile. That such tiny, delicate shards of innocence could endure in the maelstrom of pain and brutality that swirled across this broken world was no small miracle.  
  
Sister Clara smiled to herself. That seemed an appropriate thought upon which to end her day. Raising herself to her feet once more, she allowed her thoughts to turn to preparing for her own early night. Her days did, after all, begin earlier than most others'.  
  
Crossing the room, she again approached the window to grant herself one last look at the ethereal beauty of the twilight world beyond, before it was consumed by the ravenous night. Much of the sun was now lost to the horizon, as it left the sky to cast the merciful light of a new day upon some other place. In its former lofty place hung a shattered moon, casting a sorrowful gaze upon the earth as if ruing its ill-fated association with its ailing blue companion. This was the time over which none had dominion, and as such, there was no activity below. All was silent. All was calm.  
  
Clara gasped in fright as three quick, sharp raps rang from the brick walls of her room. Catching her breath, she turned quickly to face the door. Leaning back, she placed her hands blindly against the windowsill, and stared across at the closed portal. There she waited in silence, reluctant to reply.  
  
A gust of wind swept past her, momentarily swirling about the room, and causing the rickety old door to shudder in its frame. The hinges creaked, and the single, rusty bolt chattered, and then all was silent.  
  
Another three raps.  
  
Still, Sister Clara did not reply. She had no idea who stood beyond her door. The old convent had not had a secure front door in many years, leaving the building open to any who might wish entry. Save the old bolt fastened loosely to her door, the only defence was anonymity. If she gave them no sign of her presence, then she gave them no reason to enter.  
  
Another three raps, louder than before.  
  
Clara stepped forward slowly, and began to edge towards her desk. She trod carefully, acutely aware of every sound she made, from the rasp of her breath to the rustle of her habit.  
  
Without warning, a deafening screech filled the room. Clara winced, and froze where she stood. The sound was excruciating.  
  
She had trod on the squeaky floorboard.  
  
She waited a moment to see if there was any reaction from outside. None came. Clara then resumed her trek.  
  
After what felt like an age, she finally reached her desk. Looking down she beheld the single, wide drawer set into its face. The drawer stretched almost the width of the desk, and accounted for much of its depth and length. And yet, for all its volume, it housed only a single object.  
  
Slowly, reluctantly, despairingly, Clara reached for the handle. She didn't want to. More than anything, she didn't want to. What that drawer contained appalled her and frightened her. It was the very embodiment of the death of the old ways. That she should feel the need to have it sickened her.  
  
But it wasn't for her. There was something more important to her than the old ways, or her own principles, something so precious that it was worth setting these things aside to protect. And protect it she must. Protect it she would.  
  
Slowly, carefully, quietly, Sister Clara began to pull upon the handle.  
  
"Sister Clara?" a tiny voice came.  
  
Clara stayed her hand.  
  
"Sister Clara, are you there?"  
  
Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, Clara released the drawer handle. Today wasn't to be the day.  
  
"Maybe she's not there." A second little voice came.  
  
"Don't be stupid," the first snapped. "She's always in her room now."  
  
"Don't call me stupid," the second retorted. "You're the one who's stupid."  
  
"Am not."  
  
"Are too."  
  
"Am not!"  
  
"Are too!"  
  
"Ssshhh!" yet another voice interjected. "Sister Clara might be asleep."  
  
Clara smiled to herself. It was about time she intervened.  
  
"Settle down children," she called. "I'm coming."  
  
She then moved to the door, and with some strain, drew open the rusty bolt.  
  
Pulling the door aside, Clara was surprised to be confronted not just by the owners of the three voices, but also by a throng of other young faces. In fact, it seemed that almost all of the twenty or so children sheltering at the orphanage were stood in the hallway. Each one was dressed in modest but well laundered nightwear, and was staring up at her awaiting their cue to speak.  
  
Curious as to what could precipitate such a gathering, Clara asked,  
  
"Whatever is the matter, children?"  
  
In an instant, she was surrounded as everyone of the horde of youngsters spilled over the threshold of her bedroom, almost sweeping her away as they did. Along with this came tide of infants came a torrent of voices as each and everyone attempted to convey their concerns, resulting in an incomprehensible flood of poor grammar and ill-conceived sentences.  
  
Bracing herself against the waving hands and tugs on her habit, sister Clara attempted to take control of the situation.  
  
"Children, please," she pleaded. "Calm down. Please, one at a time, children. One at a time."  
  
The effect was minimal. What she wouldn't give for her hosepipe right about now.  
  
"Please, children. Calm down. I can't understand what your saying."  
  
Slowly, order began to assert itself over the small riot. After the excited buzz had finally subsided, Clara straightened out her habit and addressed the children.  
  
"Now, what's the problem?"  
  
The response was silence. One or two of the children looked at one another, some in puzzlement, and others in expectation. But not a word was uttered.  
  
Clara pondered a moment over what was going on. Then she realised she had asked them to speak one at a time, and clearly they had not assigned the role of spokesperson to any one individual.  
  
"Okay." Clara sighed, and then began to survey the crowd.  
  
Looking down, she found a small girl stood before her wearing a ragged, but immaculately clean nightdress. Clara recognised her as being the owner of the first of the voices to emanate from beyond her door. The girl, Tina, had a handful of Clara's habit in one hand, and a jar nestled under her free arm. The latter of these was half-filled with human fingernails; a grotesque collection the origins of which Clara had feared to ask. Tina could not be persuaded to part with it, even at bedtime. In fact, her only concession had been that it would be placed beneath her chair at mealtimes, rather than on the table.  
  
"Tina," Clara began. "What's the matter?"  
  
"Well," Tina replied, tentatively, "We were all in bed, and we were asleep. But then there was this noise. It was kind of a klinking noise, only it was really loud and . . ."  
  
"No it wasn't," a young boy piped up from the back. "It was a pinging sound. And it was quiet."  
  
"It was not, George!" Tina protest.  
  
"Was too!"  
  
"Was not!"  
  
Clara sighed once again.  
  
"Tina, George, stop it. Now Tina, carry on. And speak slowly."  
  
Pausing a moment to point a victorious tongue at a pouting George, Tina continued.  
  
"As I was saying," she stated placing her free hand on her hip, almost prompting Clara into laughter with her contrived grown-up mannerisms. "We heard this *quiet klinking* noise. So we all woke up and got out of bed and went to see what the noise was. So we looked aaaall over the room, and then. . ."  
  
"It was Ed!" George butted in.  
  
"George!" Tina cried angrily. "I was telling the story!"  
  
"Edward?" Clara said.  
  
She looked about room. It was then that she realised that Edward wasn't there. In her fatigue she had failed to notice the absence of the lanky, boisterous ten-year old girl - an impressive feat in itself. The strangely named child was nowhere to be seen or heard.  
  
"Tina, where is Edward?" She asked, suddenly overcome with concern.  
  
"She went." Tina replied, breaking from her staring match with George.  
  
"What?" Clara said, still fighting tiredness.  
  
"She went."  
  
"Yeah," George interrupted. "She said the face told her to."  
  
Clara frowned in bemusement.  
  
"The face?"  
  
It was not unlike Ed to dispense obscure, even nonsensical bits of information. Clara had suspected from day one that here was something unusual about the child, who seemed completely free of the boundaries of reasoning to which others were held, even more so than her fellow children.  
  
And yet, she was strangely knowing. In the years that the child had resided at the orphanage Clara had, to at least some extent, had the opportunity to gauge Edward; an opportunity she suspected was a rare one. What others might view as eccentricity, or even madness, had more than once translated into a deeper understanding that few adults could boast. It was amazing and unsettling in equal measure that people, with all their secrets and barriers, seemed so completely transparent to her.  
  
"Yup," Said George, breaking Clara's train of thought. "The face."  
  
Clara was still confused.  
  
"Show her." Tina rasped at George impatiently.  
  
"Oh, right." He replied.  
  
He then began to barge his way past his peers, appearing only as a protruding mop of black hair as he went. Excusing himself none to politely, he finally made his way to Clara's feet. Then, reaching into a pocket on the chest of his discoloured long-john pyjamas, he extracted a small metallic object.  
  
"Here." He said, holding the object up.  
  
Sister Clara reached out slowly, and plucked it from between the child's fingers.  
  
"Thank you, George." She uttered absently.  
  
Examining the object, she found that it was a small, irregular disc cast from a dark metal; clearly a bit of scrap retrieved from the landfill outside. Upon the face of the disc was scratched a crude drawing of some kind of animal, a dog perhaps. Still, Clara was confused.  
  
"I don't understand," she said. "The *face* told her?"  
  
"Look at the other side." Tina instructed.  
  
Clara turned the disc over. The reverse side bore an even stranger marking. A circular face with smiling eyes and a broad grin returned Clara's gaze.  
  
"You mean this face?"  
  
It was only as her words left her mouth that Clara began to understand what it was she held.  
  
Heads.  
  
It was coin. Clearly this object was intended to resemble an all-to-rare token of currency.  
  
"Yes," George replied to Sister Clara's question. "She said that the face came up and told her to go."  
  
"Then what happened?" Clara asked.  
  
"Then, she went." Tina said succinctly.  
  
Suddenly, the full extent of the situation dawned upon Clara.  
  
"Oh my Lord." She muttered, raising her hand to her mouth in horror.  
  
"But not before she gave George a goodbye kiss." Tina went on.  
  
"Did not!" George retorted.  
  
"Did too!"  
  
"Did not!"  
  
"Did too!"  
  
Tina then began to lead the rest of the children in a riotous chorus of 'George and Edward sitting in a tree', much to the open chagrin of George, who stuck his fingers in his ears and began to sing a discordant song of his own.  
  
Meanwhile, Sister Clara was being consumed by panic. Frantically, her tired mind tried to resolve a course of action, a task not made any easier by the ever-increasing volume of the children's singing. As she tried desperately to focus her thoughts, her imagination began to overwhelm her with all the possible fates that could befall a child travelling alone across these lands.  
  
Then, realising that her dallying would only worsen matters, Clara turned for the window began to wade slowly through the writhing crowd of youngsters. After an eternity, she emerged on the other side and trotted up to the windowsill. Leaning out of the window further than was safe, she frantically scoured the ever-darkening scene bellow. Over and over her gaze swept across the garbage-strewn wastes, desperately searching for that distinctive shock of red hair. Gradually, Clara's search took her eyes further from the orphanage, as well as her hopes of being able to retrieve the nomadic Edward.  
  
Suddenly, her eye was caught by something stirring on the far rim of the crater. A tiny shadow, narrow and faint, was emerging before of the dim arc of the setting sun. Even at this range, and in this light, the awkward stance and wiry frame were unmistakable.  
  
Clara was caught into two minds. Should she call out to Ed, and risk drawing unwanted attention to both herself and the wayward child, or pursue her in an effort to return her to safety? The latter, Clara felt, was out of question. She would never be able to catch Ed before total darkness set in, and she certainly could not leave the other children alone. Resolving that there was only one viable course of action, Clara drew in the deepest breath she could and cupped her hands around her mouth.  
  
Then she stopped. Lowering her hands, she squinted at the silhouette that was even now becoming lost to her. In the sombre orange light, she caught sight of what appeared to be a long, gangly arm, held aloft and being flung from side to side. She was waving.  
  
She was waving goodbye.  
  
It was then that Clara realised no amount of shouting was going to bring Ed back. As she stared out across the seemingly widening crater, Clara found herself gently returning the wave. And then, with the children's voices still ringing in the night air, the little silhouette faded into the sad smile of the setting sun, departing as swiftly and inexplicably as it had once arrived.  
  
Clara doubted that she would ever see Edward again. 


	4. Put Another Nickel In

*** Chance 4: Put Another Nickel In  
  
Spike wrapped his arms tighter around his chest, and drew his head further in between the raised lapels of his trench coat. This took some of the bite out of the freezing air, but did little to curb the uncomfortable cling of his wet clothes. Every fibre of his every garment was soaked through with tepid rainwater, making for a distracting and inescapable sensation of dampness.  
  
Peering out from beneath the veil of soaking hair that lay pasted to his forehead, Spike surveyed the street ahead. The narrow road stretched off out of view, with most of its length being obscured by the torrential downpour that had been ongoing since his arrival in the quaint little fishing town. On either side of the narrow road rows of terraced buildings huddled together, and appeared to hunch forwards in an effort to protect their cracked and battered faces from the relentless rainfall.  
  
Spike took a sideways glance at the building nearest. Upon its door were nailed two tarnished brass numbers – a five and a two. Giving a grunt of surprise, he looked across the street to the building opposite. He could just about make out a flickering neon sign through the sheets of rain and the grubby window pane, a sure indication he had found what he was looking for.  
  
"Finally." He muttered.  
  
Without checking the deserted street for oncoming traffic, Spike stepped out onto the tarmac and marched purposefully towards his destination.  
  
There was a deafening cry of thunder, followed almost instantly by an angry flash of lightening. It was as if the very heavens themselves were trying to drive away the weary traveller. This wouldn't have surprised Spike, as his journey had been fraught with difficulties of almost every kind. It was remarkable just how difficult it was to move between jurisdictions when one was thought dead by the authorities.  
  
A sudden gust of wind rolled down the narrow road, catching Spike's trench coat and almost lifting him from the ground like lanky kite.  
  
"Damn it!" he rasped, and raised his arms to allow the gust to pass unhindered through his jacket.  
  
He then gave a low growl and folded his arms in defence against the bitter cold. Leaning into the wind he trotted the rest of the way across the street, mounting the pavement and moving quickly to the front of the establishment. The window that was set into the wooden door housed a small sign, which bore the markings "Bar Ichthys" and "Open". Without further delay Spike placed a hand against the steel plate on the left of the door and swept it aside.  
  
With a measure of relief he stepped in from the cold, his arrival heralded by the peel of a tiny bell suspended above the doorway. He then released the door, allowing it to fall gently back into its frame and shut out the frigid breeze.  
  
Now that he was out of the rain, Spike became aware of the stream of water that was coursing down his face from his soaking hair. He gave it a brief, dog-like shake to get rid of the bulk of the water, and then set about removing his waterlogged jacket. This done, he draped the garment over his arm and made his first assessment of his new surroundings.  
  
Spike's vantage point at the top of a short flight of wooden stairs gave him an excellent view of the scene below. Realising that the reverse was true, he quickly descended the stairs.  
  
Mercifully, the bar was murky and poorly patronised, so there was little chance of his having been recognised. The dim flickering lights in its cracked ceiling scarcely penetrated the smoke filled air, and its miserly windows did little to contribute. It was the perfect place for a clandestine rendezvous.  
  
As he moved discretely across the grimy stone floor, Spike made a quick head count. The clientele consisted wholly a semi-conscious barfly hunched awkwardly over the bar, staring blankly into the bottom of an empty shot glass, and a pair of distinctly crusty looking mariner types, garbed in grimy overcoats and vinyl rain hats, sat at a round table in the far corner. The faint glimmer of their pipes did more to light their dark alcove than the modest lighting, providing a grotesque accentuation of the fishermen's gnarled features.  
  
Spike had certainly shared bars with more attractive people. Unfortunately, none of those present seemed to be the one for whom he was looking. As he had feared, he had arrived first.  
  
The barfly was sat on a wooden stool at the corner of the bar nearest the door, so Spike began to make his way to the opposite end so as not to encourage unwanted conversation; that, and the barfly's *unique* odour was none-too inviting.  
  
Reaching the far corner Spike dumped his jacket on the bar, drew out a stool from by the counter and took a seat. No sooner had he done so, a stout man with bald head and full beard emerged from a door behind the bar. The man, clearly the proprietor, paid Spike little heed as he busied himself polishing a pint glass with his stained apron. Turning to his left, the bartender briefly held the glass up to the dim light, then reached up and hung it from a wooden peg above several shelves laden with untidy ranks of spirits and mixers. It was only then that he caught sight of Spike in the dust-streaked mirror that adorned the wall behind.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," he chortled as he turned around. "I didn't see you there."  
  
Spike drew his head down slightly between his upturned shirt lapels. The volume of the bartender's greeting was making him uneasy.  
  
"We don't get too many new faces around here these days," the bartender went on. "So I guess I just didn't think to look."  
  
"Don't worry about it." Spike said, taking a glance over at the door.  
  
"So, can I get you anything?"  
  
The question escaped Spike for a moment as he tried to see past the dirty windows and driving rain to anyone who might be passing outside.  
  
"Hey son, you listening?"  
  
Spike's head snapped back to the bartender, but still he didn't make eye contact.  
  
"No, thanks." Spike declined.  
  
The bartender looked at Spike in puzzlement for a moment, and then shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"Okay, suit yourself," he said. "I mean, this is a public house, after all. So, I suppose it's alright if you just wanna sit there and take in the ambience. Not that you'll get much of that around here, isn't that right fellas?"  
  
The bartender's open question was greeted with a deep grunt that emanated from the bar's one occupied table.  
  
"As you can see, this isn't really much of a social spot," the barman continued. "In fact, since the fish stocks started to dwindle, I could probably count my regulars on two hands."  
  
Spike was becoming rather impatient with the bartenders prattling.  
  
"I changed my mind about that drink." He said, aiming to break the stream of consciousness.  
  
"Ah, I thought you might. What can I get you?"  
  
"Whisky."  
  
"Single or double?"  
  
"Double."  
  
"On the rocks or straight?"  
  
Spike sighed.  
  
"Straight."  
  
"That' just as well," said the bartender. "The freezer's not working anyway. Hasn't done for two months. Can't really afford to pay repair bills, not since the fish stocks started to dwindle. So of course I can't serve food any more, save peanuts that is, so that just makes things worse. Kind of a vicious cycle, you know? Oh, that reminds me..."  
  
The bartender reached beneath the counter.  
  
Sensing possible danger Spike's head jumped up slightly, and his right hand made the leap for the inside of his suit jacket.  
  
After a couple of seconds of fumbling beneath the bar, the bartender produced a small bowl and presented it to Spike.  
  
"Peanut?"  
  
Spike gave a grunt of annoyance.  
  
"No, thanks," He growled as he relaxed back into his initial slouch. "Listen, do you have the time?"  
  
"The time?" the barman echoed.  
  
Reaching beneath his apron he extracted a small, steel pocket watch. He flicked it open, and glanced briefly at its face and answered,  
  
"Its ten past seven," He then looked back to Spike, catching him as he stole another look at the door. "Why, are you waiting for someone?"  
  
Spike's eyes widened. He had only wanted to shut the guy up, not give the game away.  
  
"C'mon," the bartender went on. "You can tell me. I don't often get people as interesting as you in here."  
  
He then glanced down the bar.  
  
"No offence, Jim."  
  
The barfly didn't respond.  
  
Spike was becoming agitated. He didn't know how he could have given so much away whilst having hardly said a word. He might have kicked himself, had he not thought the barman would ask why.  
  
Regaining his composure, he looked straight into the bartender's inquisitive eyes.  
  
"Where's that whisky I asked for?"  
  
The bartender drew his head back in surprise, and then shrugged.  
  
"Alright then," he sighed. "Guess that's what I get for trying to be friendly."  
  
Spike rolled his eyes. He wasn't about to be drawn in by the rotund landlord's sulk; his heart had done quite enough bleeding for one lifetime.  
  
The bartender turned around and plucked a half-full bottle of dark liquid from the lowest shelf. He looked down at the bottle, and then blew some dust from the label.  
  
"I don't know," he sighed as he took a shot glass from the open cabinet at his waist. "It's getting so that a guy can't even take an interest in his customers anymore."  
  
Spike crossed his arms on the bar, and allowed his head to rest wearily upon them. Still, the man refused to shut up.  
  
"Once upon a time, I used to have all kinds of interesting conversations with all kinds interesting people," the bartender reminisced, paying a little less attention to pouring the drink than perhaps he should have. "People would come from all over the moons to drink here, back when things here were good. These days though, you'll be lucky to get a tip of a hat and a good morning. Nobody wants to talk to their friendly barkeep anymore, they just wanna sip their fancy drinks with a slice of lemon and a little umbrella, and make their private little meetings and such."  
  
The bartender replaced the bottle on the shelf and turned to face Spike.  
  
"Ah, but what am I telling you all this for," he sighed, placing the slightly stale smelling whisky under Spike's nose. "A slick Martian type such as y'self wouldn't understand."  
  
Spike grunted with surprise and raised his head suddenly, causing him to make momentary, unintentional eye contact with the bartender. The bartender returned Spike's stare for a moment, before a look of realisation came across his face.  
  
"Oh, you're wondering how I know where you're from," he said. "Well, for your information, I guy like you sticks out like a sore thumb around these parts, what with that snazzy suit and trendy *bouffant* hair o' yours. No self-respecting Ganymede dweller would step outside his front door dressed like that."  
  
"Is that right?" Said Spike.  
  
"Yeah, I've seen thousands of people sitting on that same stool you are. I've gotten pretty good at guessing things about people. In fact, I could probably guess a whole barrel of things about you right now, if you wanted."  
  
"I'd rather you didn't."  
  
"Now let's see. Well, I already got that you were from Mars. I guess, from the way you keep looking at the door..."  
  
Spike quickly looked away from the door.  
  
"... that you're in here waiting for some one – probably a man, since you don't seem to have made much of an effort, if you know what I mean. And then there are those lapels; you must have them pulled up that high for a reason. My guess is you don't want to be seen. Are you hiding from something, or perhaps from someone?"  
  
Spike stood up from his stool, much to the bartender's surprise.  
  
"Hey, where are you going?" he asked.  
  
Spike wanted more than anything to announce his departure, but he still had business to take care of. For now, he looked around for an excuse to get away from the bartender's uncomfortably accurate rambling. Upon glancing over his left shoulder he spied an antique duke box stood in the far corner of the bar. Bathed in the glow of a single shade-less bulb that hung above it, the arch-shaped machine stared forlornly across the room.  
  
"Does that thing work?" Spike asked.  
  
"Well yes, but..."  
  
Spike turned and walked away before the bartender could complete his sentence. Slipping his hands into his pockets he began to make his way casually across the room, sensing the eyes of the haggard seamen following him as he went.  
  
Upon reaching the duke box Spike fumbled around in his right pocket. He then extracted a small coin and held up to the light to check its denomination. The face was embossed with the number one hundred and a large 'w' intersected by two horizontal lines. One didn't see many one hundred woolong pieces these days; in these times of hyperinflation, such piffling sums were worth little more than a shot of cheap bourbon or a tune from a crummy record player.  
  
Spike reached out and dropped the coin into the slot in the face of the machine, and listened as it tumbled through its innards. Then to his surprise, the coin emerged, regurgitated into the returned-change tray a few inches beneath where it had been inserted.  
  
Spike cocked an eyebrow. Retrieving the coin he tried again, only to have it spat back at him once more. He tried again, and again, becoming more agitated with each failed attempt to operate the contraption.  
  
"Works better when it's plugged in." A voice came from behind.  
  
Spike looked over his shoulder in surprise. It was the bar tender.  
  
Why? Why couldn't he just be left alone?  
  
Reluctantly Spike turned back to the duke box and leaned over to one side slightly. Peering down to the left of the machine, he found that its power cord was indeed disconnected from the nearby mains socket. At this point however, Spike was too disgruntled to be embarrassed. He simply rolled his eyes as if he had expected nothing less.  
  
"Don't let it bother you," the bartender placated. "I sometimes forget myself. And besides, the old girl doesn't have any records to play for you. Hasn't done in a good while."  
  
Figured.  
  
At that moment, the bell above the front door sounded, catching both men by surprise. Both turned to look at the door. There, at the top of the stairs was stood a man, broad in build and gruff in expression, surveying the bar room from behind the mask of a well-maintained beard. The drops of water that trickled from his balding head glinted in the dim light, as did the cybernetic implant that cradled his left eye socket, and the artificial arm that hung fist clenched at his side.  
  
Spike found his own eyes lingering on the prosthetic. He hadn't seen anything like that since his last visit to a mob doctor on Mars, as such crude replacement limbs were considered obsolete among the more reputable and affordable medics.  
  
The newcomer's piercing stare swept over Spike. Quickly -- but not so quickly as to attract attention -- he looked away.  
  
"That's the guy, huh?" the bartender asked in a hushed tone, clearly enjoying the thrill of what he considered to be an exiting change of pace. "I mean, the guy you've been waiting for."  
  
Spike sighed at his misfortune. If only he himself had insisted on choosing the meeting place. Of course, he didn't answer the question. He couldn't even if he wanted to, since he wasn't sure whether this was the man he had been in contact with these last few days.  
  
"Ah, I don't blame you for not going over," The bartender went on. "Doesn't look like your kind of guy, what with that serious look and rigid posture. He's probably a bit of a by-the-book type."  
  
Presumptuousness aside, he was right. Even Spike had noticed these things about the arrival, and was not at all encouraged. He had yet to make a positive I.D, however, so he would reserve his judgement for now.  
  
The sound of heavy boots striking wood carried across the room. Carefully Spike edged aside, so he could see a reflection of the newcomer in the Perspex face of the duke box.  
  
The man descended the stairs and, after a brief second glance around the room, walked across the bar took a seat a few stools along from the barfly.  
  
Spike stole a look over his shoulder. As he had suspected, the back of the man's grey, sleeveless overall was adorned by the image of an eagle, rendered in gold with wings outstretched. With neither man having seen the other before today, this was the distinguishing feature by which Spike had been told he would recognise his would-be business associate.  
  
Spike too had given a distinguishing feature; it was just that the distinguishing feature he had given wasn't his own. He knew better than that. As it was, the head that bore the shoulder length silver hair was now several months, and several million kilometres behind him.  
  
"I don't think he recognised you," the bartender observed quietly. "You know, you could probably walk right out of here and he'd be none the wiser."  
  
He was right. Indeed, that had been the idea when Spike had given a false description of himself.  
  
"And besides, I know it isn't any if my business but I think you'd be better off going back and dealing with whatever it is you're trying to get away from."  
  
He was right. It *wasn't* any of his business.  
  
A gruff voice arose from by the bar.  
  
"Hey, barkeep!"  
  
"I'd better get over there," said the bartender. "But I'd decide what you're gonna do now if I were you, before he starts asking questions. Believe it or not, I can be a bit of a blabbermouth."  
  
Spike rolled his eyes.  
  
"Hey, barkeep!" the call was repeated, this time a little louder than before.  
  
"Be right there." The bartender replied, and with that, left Spike's side.  
  
Spike peered out the corner of his eye at the bartender as he returned to his station. He then returned his gaze to the duke box. Staring into the Perspex face of the contraption he contemplated the gaunt, almost emaciated features of his reflection.  
  
Times had been hard since Spike had left Mars. It had proven difficult to maintain his low profile, while at the same time generating sufficient funds upon which to live. Hopping from planet to planet, satellite to satellite, he had scarcely known from where his next meal would come. For as long as he could remember he had always had some affiliation to lean upon, both socially and financially, and it was his need for this that was now driving him to forge a new alliance.  
  
The problem was that, as much as Spike had become accustomed to running with the pack, he was not one to have his movements stifled. He had known from day one that the man had once been a member of the ISSP, an organisation that was more than a little at odds with his own – those members that weren't on the syndicates' payroll, that is. He also knew that this would present something of a risk, but at the time, the contrast had held a perverse attraction. But now that he saw his contact in the flesh, he was beginning to lose his enthusiasm. Spike feared that this rigid individual might introduce an unwelcome voice of reason to the new life he was crafting for himself, and the last thing he needed was a conscience.  
  
The question now was could he afford to walk out on the only promising offer to date? If he did, then there would be only one place he could go.  
  
Spike placed both hands against the Duke box and lowered his head wearily. These past few months had been fraught with difficult decisions, and he could hardly bring himself to make another.  
  
It was then that he spied his one hundred woolong piece, staring back at him from the change tray. Picking it from its resting place he looked it over, then smiled vaguely to himself.  
  
"Why not?" he uttered.  
  
Heads he would remain, and accept the offer of a partnership, or tails, he would leave and settle the business that had driven him from his home world.  
  
It was quick, simple, and required minimal thought; just like all the best things in life.  
  
Without further hesitation, Spike placed the coin on his right thumb and flicked it gently into the air. The disk tumbled briefly through space, winking in the sombre light before being plucked unceremoniously from its freefall. Spike then held up his clenched fist to the light, and slowly opened his hand.  
  
Tails.  
  
Spike stood motionless for a moment. He did not know why, but for some reason this was not the outcome he had expected. And yet, there it was.  
  
Trying his best not to be moved, Spike shrugged nonchalantly.  
  
"Guess it must be fate." He muttered.  
  
He then flicked the coin into the air once more, grabbed it and dropped back into his right trouser pocket.  
  
Turning, he began a brisk march back to the bar where the bartender was now pouring a double scotch for Spike's would-be business partner. Without stopping to acknowledge either man, Spike pulled his jacket from the counter and headed for the door.  
  
Perhaps this would be for the best. After all, how could he live the carefree life he desired when the edges of his existence were so frayed with loose ends?  
  
Spike placed one foot on the bottom step, but then stopped. Looking up, he peered through the window in the door.  
  
He could see nothing.  
  
Be it the grimy glass or driving rain, Spike could see nothing beyond the door of the little bar on Ganymede.  
  
It was only then that he became acutely aware of the sensation of something cold pressing against his right leg. Reaching into his pocket, Spike once more brought the coin out into the light.  
  
Still tails.  
  
"Fate," Spike muttered, and then chuckled to himself. "What was I thinking?"  
  
Pulling his foot from the step, he turned back to the bar.  
  
"Hey Jim," he called to the barfly. "Have one on me."  
  
He then tossed the coin into the air. The little disc arced across the room, and landed squarely in Jim's empty shot glass with a shrill clink.  
  
Paying little attention to the fortuitousness of his throw, Spike began to make his way back across the bar. He resolved then and there that he had no need of invisible forces to decide his actions, nor would he allow them to do so. The old life was dead and gone, and no measure of fate would bring it back. He was free. Free to make his own decisions. Free to walk his own path. Free to live his own life.  
  
Spike Spiegel was the author of his own fate.  
  
***  
  
The End  
  
***  
  
Well, that's it. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. 


End file.
